


Of Good Books & Black Omens

by D20Owlbear, Lurlur, samvelg, WyvernQuill



Category: Black Books (TV), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale takes notes, Being Replaced™ as Best Friend™ is A Big Deal, Bernard is a bastard, Bernard is drunk, Black Books - Freeform, Crowley and Manny are Confused, Crowley is a supportive partner, Drinking, Excessive Drinking, Frankenfic, M/M, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, Swearing, The crossover that everyone deserved but no one wanted, accidentally got a bit angsty, good omens - Freeform, qpr, queer platonic relationship, rated T for testing my patience, visited by the footnote fairy, with great taste in wine, with terrible taste in wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/samvelg/pseuds/samvelg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: Aziraphale encounters the only bookseller in London with a worse reputation than his. Navigating the difficult path between friendship and a transactional relationship, Aziraphale and Bernard work out whether they have more in common than not. Crowley feels ignored and jealous. Manny is also there.Your authors today are: D20Owlbear, Lurlur, Samvelg, and WyvernQuill.





	Of Good Books & Black Omens

“Black Books.” An Irish voice, gruff and snappish, answered on the 12th ring.

“Oh hello! I’m following a lead on a copy of the 1631 ‘Wicked Bible’. I heard that you might have some information?” Aziraphale used his sunniest voice, delighted to have finally got someone to pick up the phone.

“Oh god. It’s 8 in the bloody morning. Go away.”

The line clicked dead. Aziraphale looked at the receiver in his hand as if it might go on to insult his bowtie or kick him in the shins.

“Well! I can’t say much for _ your _ customer service.” He sniffed, with no apparent sense of irony.

* * *

“Black Books.”

“Ah, you’re open! Might I speak with someone about a rare book I’m looking for?” Aziraphale tried, ever hopeful.

“Of course, please hold the line.”

That, thought Aziraphale, was a vast improvement on the last time he had managed to reach anyone at the shop. He could hear a faint conversation being carried out away from the phone; two male voices, arguing. He started to lose patience.

“...because it’s your bookshop, Bernard.” Said the voice who had answered the phone.

“One day, I’ll be dead and you’ll be sorry you ever spoke to me that way.” The Irish man from before complained. There was a scuffling noise as he picked up the phone.

“What?” 

Aziraphale was affronted at the tone but dedicated to his cause.

“I’m hoping that you’ll be able to help me in locating a rare misprinted bible.”

“And I’m hoping that Manny here will turn into a beautiful woman who loves Irish bookshop owners, but tha-MANNY! I will staple your hands together if you don’t stop fiddling with that thing!-but that’s not going to happen now, is it?”  [1]

"My good fellow this is most uncalled for-" Aziraphale had had quite enough of this foolishness.

"I should hope so, considering I wasn't the one who called you out of the blue when I was trying to have breakfast."

"It's three in the afternoon!"

"Oh are you the time police now too? Well unless you've got a warrant I'm going back to my eggs and soldiers. Bye."

"Are you--hello? Hello?"

* * *

"This is an absolutely unacceptable way to treat somebody who's being perfectly civil to you despite your determined bad attitude!" Snapped Aziraphale, thinking longingly of using a miracle to encourage him to be less of an arsehole but refusing to concede defeat so easily. "Don't you realise that if you continue on this path of poor manners and petty grudges that you will never be truly happy?" 

(And Aziraphale would never get his book, but that was neither here nor there.)

"And do you realise that you sound like one of the Ghosts of Christmas Whatever trying to get me to repent of my wicked ways? Fair warning, I don't think you're going to do any better with me than they did with Scrooge."

Okay, that was equal parts insulting and insightful. "I sound like nothing of the sort!"

"Well if the wreath fits..."

"You, you-" He began, working his way up to what would have been a top notch example of name-calling which would definitely have made the arrogant man reconsider his life choices, when he realised he was about to tell off the dial tone. 

"Oh for _ fuck's _ sake!"

* * *

"Don't you ever get tired of this?" Asked Bernard, sounding either hungover or like he was gazing into the abyss. Possibly both. 

"Tired of what?" Sniffed Aziraphale, slumped in his desk chair and also staring out the window forlornly. Aziraphale had _ seen _ the abyss, and it frankly didn't compare. "Your appalling attitude?"

"I was more referring to your Sisyphusian determination to keep trying to roll this boulder up the hill of ubiquity, again and again and again-"

"Dear fellow-"

"- hold on, wasn't finished - and again and AGAIN. But both work I suppose."

“Hmph.” This time it was Aziraphale that hung up.

There was nothing else for it, he was going to have to visit the shop in person.

* * *

The walk from A.Z. Fell & Co. in Soho to Black Books in Bloomsbury would take most people around 20 minutes. It took Aziraphale 47 and a half minutes due to an unreasonable amount of dithering, the three times he turned back towards home, and one cream cake in the window of a bakery that he just couldn't pass up. It did, at least, help steel his nerves against whatever manner of beastly small business owner he was about to face.

Aziraphale's first uncharitable thought upon seeing Black Books was simply _ mine's bigger _ , although, strictly speaking, that wasn't true. If you measured the dimensions of Aziraphale's bookshop, you would find that it was an almost perfect square of six metres along each wall. Black Books was narrower, and L-shaped, but it's total floor space was 4 square metres larger than that occupied by A.Z. Fell & Co.  The fact that Aziraphale had simply never imagined not having enough room for more books and had therefore stretched reality into accepting a few extensions didn't really make for a fair comparison. [2]

The second was that the dusty windows and haphazard piles of books visible through the window looked incredibly familiar. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, he straightened his back and smoothed down his waistcoat before striding into the bookshop.

There were a few customers in there, but certainly not enough to distract you from the fact the bookshop was filthy, covered in dust and lit only by a series of lamps which did little to illuminate things clearly. The books were, for the most part, not remotely of the same calibre as his own, but he could spot a few tantalising gems buried in underneath the rest of the tat which appeared to have an even worse organisational system than his own.

(For starters he had one, even if the knowledge and understanding of it was between him and the Almighty.)  [3]

There were cobwebs all over the ceiling and even some of the shelves, and if he wasn't mistaken in the far corner one of the webs had apparently ensnared a very respectable collection of baked beans. An exceptionally plush sofa looked very much like something he wanted to sit in, right up until he saw a person sitting in it get sucked down between the voluminous cushions and disappear from view. Even the floors were a toxic mixture of stains and the possible beginnings of a new, dust-based lifeform, and by now Aziraphale was starting to feel the quiet onset of dread. 

With his foot sticking to the floor somewhere behind the first display table like it had been purposefully glued there by one of Crowley's pranks, he ended up with a clear vantage point to the front desk where a scruffy, dark-haired man in an even scruffier dark suit was loudly snoring face-down on an open book while a nervous looking man with incredibly wide eyes and long, fly-away blonde hair was trying to simultaneously apologise to whoever was yelling on the phone as well as to the irate customer in front of him who was apparently very displeased with some element of the customer service, which might in fact just be all of it. (Minuscule as it was to begin with.)

The blonde man - Manny he realised if the well-intentioned and overwhelmed stuttering was anything to go by - was looking about ready to start crying when all the commotion woke up the dark-haired man, who by process of elimination must be his most recent nemesis, Bernard Black. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses even though he was inside, and there were lines of blue ink on his face from where he'd apparently been sleeping on his ledger which somehow looked a bit like Pictish warpaint. 

"Oi, what's with all the shouting, Manny?" He shouted at Manny. "You know I was taking my nap, that was very inconsiderate of you."

"Well you see, Bernard, there's a customer on the phone who says they reserved a book with us-"

"Pah!" Declared Bernard, snatching the phone away from his long-suffering employee. "Yes, hello? Alright yes, yes you apparently reserved a book, but who cares? I certainly don't, so now I'm going to hang up because I've just remembered that I can’t speak English. Goodbye!"

And with that thrilling conclusion he slammed the receiver down before fixing his sights on the customer who was physically present like an apex predator scenting an injured herbivore downwind, and Aziraphale realised that,  with the slowly increasing air of malice, all other customers but for the woman at the front desk and himself had left. [4]

"Right, your turn. What could possibly be so important that it couldn't wait until after my nap?"

"Well if you _ must _ know-" She started testily, but that's as far as she got because, upon reflection, Bernard apparently cared about her issue as much as he had about that of the customer on the phone.

Standing up he fetched a rather large wooden broom from behind the desk and started half-heartedly sweeping at her feet and forcing her to take step after step backwards to avoid being tripped over.

"What the bloody hell?"

"So sorry." Said Bernard, who was clearly not remotely sorry. "I can't hear you over the sound of the vacuum cleaner."

Stumbling back towards the front door she tried again to make her feelings known. 

"But that's a broom!"

Thanks to a good two millennia of reading Crowley's expression despite the perpetual use of sunglasses he could tell that Bernard scowled and narrowed his eyes dangerously at this questioning of his authority in his domain.

"Manny!" He called out, and like an especially well-trained attack dog Manny immediately started making loud, enthusiastic vacuum noises over Bernard's shoulder as he chased the customer out of the store with his broom.

"Oh good lord." 

It came to him in a flash, why exactly he was feeling so disquieted: _ this must be what all his customers feel when entering his own bookshop. _Aziraphale honestly didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or take notes. What an outstanding performance.

Unfortunately, his exclamation drew the attention of the two humans who were still riding the adrenaline high of customer thwarting, one he knew only too well. And being as familiar with that state as he was when they turned on him, Bernard with his broom and Manny with his increasingly aggressive vacuum noises, he didn't even bother to try and fight his case for the book and let them herd him out.

As the lock clicked behind him followed by the sound of the two victorious shopkeepers bickering with each other, Aziraphale knew he would have to regroup and plan his next foray better now that he'd gotten the lay of the land and the true measure of his adversary.

First, however, he was going to miracle himself a new shoe, after the one usually on his left foot had become a permanent fixture of the sticky spot he had been caught in. [5]

For all his initial excitement at finally meeting a worthy opponent, by the time he got back to his shop he was feeling somewhat mopey. Okay, maybe a lot mopey.

"I don't think you understand, Crowley." Aziraphale wrung his hands dejectedly. "It was _ horrid." _

"Yeah?" Crowley scoffed. "What's this Barmy Black [6] got that you haven't, then?"

"Oh, well. He's got a sofa."

"That doesn't sound-"

"And it _ eats _ people!"

"Oh."

"Yes oh!" Aziraphale began agitatedly pacing the back room. "You should've seen the shelves - if that bookstore has ever seen a cataloging system, it certainly wasn't looking! And dust bunnies - THIS big, Crowley!"

He indicated a size with his hands that rather spoke for renaming the things dust elephants.

"And that's not even mentioning the customer service!"

Crowley gulped. 

"That bad?"

"Non. Ex. Is. Tent." Aziraphale enunciated, with no uncertain measure of awe in his voice. "The man is a _ virtuoso. _ I've no chance, Crowley, none at all. I'm outmatched."

Now, Crowley's centuries of experience and carefully-honed common sense led him to believe that you always, _ always _ agreed when Aziraphale was in a bit of a strop. Yes angel, sure angel, how about that weather, eh, angel?  [7]

This time, however, Crowley noted the dejected slump of Aziraphale's shoulders, the lacklustre droop of his curls, and the distinct broccoli tang of his Angelic Aura, [8] and some soft, caring, almost-very-nearly-but-don't-you-go-around-telling-people _ kind _ part deep inside of him squared up its metaphorical shoulders, and called the rest of him to action.

Crowley scoffed once more, loudly and pointedly and with the kind of edge to it that you could get a very close shave from if you only stood at the right angle to the original scoffer.

Aziraphale blinked. "Did you mean to say something, dear?"

"No." Crowley took off his sunglasses, the severity of the conversation required him to. "I just scoffed. You know, like people do when someone's talking rubbish."

"Rubbish!?" Aziraphale bristled. "My _ dear _ [9] fellow…"

"_ Rubbish _." Crowley confirmed, wavering only a little bit under his gaze. "The guy has nothing on you, Aziraphale."

"But, the _ sofa- _"

"NOTHING." Crowley insisted. "Look up there, angel. What do you see?"

"Oh, really-"

"What. Do. You. See."

Aziraphale squinted.

Put on his reading glasses.

Squinted some more.

"Why, it's just an empty stretch of ceiling." He finally stated.

"And...?" Crowley prompted, with the desperate-pleading air of one who is angling for a certain answer and their entire 50%-of-the-final-grade-presentation is hinging on it.

"And... some cobwebs?"

"YES!" Crowley exclaimed, like one who finally got "Niagara Falls" back and may proceed with their slides on particularly riveting rivers. "COBWEBS! And not just any type of cobwebs! Dirty ones, spanning the entire ceiling and multiple centuries, I bet _ Black Books _doesn't have-"

"HIS cobwebs have beans in." Aziraphale responded glumly.

"YOURS have a Full English!" Crowley pointed at the patch of ceiling in question. _ "Since 1873!" _

"Oh. So they do." Aziraphale blinked, and moved closer to the spot directly underneath it to study it better.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you." Crowley stopped him with a hand on his arm. "It's been threatening to fall since last spring."  [10]

Aziraphale quickly stepped back.

"Plus," Crowley continued, only picking up steam, "you not only have no filing system other than flights of fancy, you _ also _ change it up every fortnight. And it only ever gets worse."

"Well." Aziraphale hesitated. "I _ did _ put the Byron next to the Keats…"

"I've no idea how that relates to my point." Crowley answered honestly.

"They-"

"_And I don't care. _ [11] In any case, it's a terrible, awful, dirty mess."

"Oh, _ you _." Aziraphale melted, like the piece of chocolate he hadn't cleaned off the windowsill since the late 19th century.

His train of thought was briefly derailed, thrown off by the kind of praise that only a true friend could give. Ultimately, he rallied and found a new tack to use in his despairing comparison.

“You know, he even has a witty sidekick. It’s like he’s _ trying _ to emulate me!”

Crowley frowned.

“Angel, you don’t have a sidekick. You’ve never had so much as an assistant."

A pause, pregnant with the kind of realisation that could end lesser relationships.

“Oh sod off, Aziraphale. I’m not your sidekick!”

"No, no, of course not!" Aziraphale held up his hands in a placating manner. "You're an, ah, an apprentice!"

"...apprentice."

"And what a very fine one, too!" Aziraphale nodded quickly.

"Better than Black's?"

Aziraphale dithered. His need to self-flagellate clashed with his natural instinct to reassure Crowley.

"...I would not want for another." Aziraphale finally stretched out one metaphorical leg and carefully side-stepped the question.

"But." Crowley shoved the elephant in the room back out onto the street and barged on. "But, m'point is, your bookshop is an unwelcoming, dreary Hell- uh, Heavenhole."

Aziraphale flushed, obviously pleased.

"And as for customer service-"

"He chases them out with a broom…" Aziraphale sighed dreamily.

Crowley scowled. That kind of sigh was not for B-something _ sodding _ Black. It was for good crêpes, outstanding wine, and maybe, _ maybe _, sometimes Crowley, if he'd been a particularly dear boy.

"So?" He replied rather more tetchily than the situation might have necessitated. "You've sent them running with a flaming sword, don't think I haven't seen you do it."

"It was a letter opener!" Aziraphale protested heatedly. "And… and it was only sparking at the top a little!"  [12]

"Flaming. Sword." Crowley insisted.

"You have no proof." Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley held up a finger, pulled his wallet from his trousers - not without difficulty, they were tight enough to consist entirely of spray-painted black denim and minor miracles - and produced a long trail of photographs.

Aziraphale's eyes slid over about five pictures of the Bentley from various flattering angles, one of Warlock at age 6, and a few of Crowley's least disappointing potted plants, until, finally, he came to a rather candid shot of himself, brandishing a 3-foot-long double-edged letter opener, which was sparkling a little A LOT from the top and onwards.

"They wanted the signed Austen." Aziraphale grumbled. "What was I to do?"

"Face it, Aziraphale." Crowley tucked the photos back into his wallet. "You are, without question, the very worst bookshop owner of the very worst bookshop in Lond-"

Crowley paused.

Decided extrapolation was called for.

"- in the _ world _, and you have been for nearly two centuries. No up-jumped little bible-hoarder even has a chance."

"And… you're not just saying that?" Aziraphale wrung his hands again.

"Swear on my mother's grave." [13] Crowley responded solemnly.

"Well. Maybe. Maybe I am!" Aziraphale brightened noticeably. "And, why, I should go right now to purchase that bible from him, and give him some choice words in the meantime, oh yes sir!"

"That's my angel!" Crowley grinned. "Go get 'em, tiger!"

Aziraphale straightened his cuffs, adjusted his bowtie, squared up his shoulders…

"...after lunch." He muttered quickly, bravado visibly jumping ship behind his eyes, before he went off to scuttle further into the backroom.

* * *

Having broken the seal on visiting Black Books, Aziraphale found himself wandering towards Bloomsbury more often than he liked. He was drawn back to the theatre of retail horrors for repeat performances once or twice a week, just to watch Bernard Black repel his customers and prevent the sale of his books. The man was a virtuoso; his techniques were spontaneous and improvised to suit the needs of the moment, he was often drunk, drinking, or hungover and still managed to execute scathing assaults of wit upon the hapless and unsuspecting public. On the few occasions that Aziraphale found himself on the receiving end of a Black diatribe, he marvelled at the speed and ferocity of the barbs hurled at him.  [14]

There were behaviours that Aziraphale the angel simply could not allow Aziraphale the small business owner to get away with. Being overtly rude to customers was one such behaviour. He could make the shop unpleasant, operate such irregular hours that no-one could plan a visit, devise an organisational system that served only to frustrate rather than inform, and allow Crowley to lounge about the place, giving pointed looks to anyone managing to browse in a meaningful way; those were all passive factors that he could maintain without singling out individual customers. To do otherwise would be downright unangelic, and not something that he could even consider.

Bernard Black had no such limitations. He could drink and smoke and swear and huff and demand to be paid in leatherbound pounds and the only person that could hold him accountable was himself.  [15]

Truth be told, Aziraphale was jealous. 

He found a kind of catharsis in watching someone say all the things he would never be able to. He enjoyed the interactions between Bernard and his partner, Manny. Aziraphale even found amusement in the way that Bernard resolutely refused to even discuss the misprinted bible that had started this fraught acquaintanceship. He was never brave enough to sit on the sofa, though.

On one notable occasion, Aziraphale had been inspecting an improbably balanced stack of romance poets and wondering if the possibility of finding a first edition Byron was worth the risk of dislodging 14 very dusty books and drawing the attention of Bernard.  [16]

“You. Doctor Who. Why are you back here?”

Aziraphale looked up and found Bernard looking daggers at him.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Time traveller-looking fecker, aren’t you?” He hadn’t even bother to stand up from his desk, Aziraphale noticed. “Why do you keep coming back? What do you want from me?”

Aziraphale recognised the options available to him as a spectrum spanning a range between the absolute truth and outright lying. He decided to split the difference and mix a dose of the truth in with a protective lie.

“Curiosity, mostly. I run a bookshop nearby and, well, you know how the economy has been lately.  [17] I wanted to see what my competition looked like.”

A moment passed between them, unreadable and stiff.

“You’re trying to poach my shop boy! MANNY!” Bernard exploded out of his chair and towards the door behind the desk. “MANNY! Has this man been trying to tempt you away with offers of minimum wage and lollipops?”

The sound of footsteps hurrying down a staircase echoed through the shop.

“Oh, like you would ever let me leave!” Manny looked sulky when he appeared.  [18]

“Let you? I’ve been begging you! Go! Please, feel free. I can barely afford to keep you in coco pops and football stickers. Go and be someone else’s problem!” 

Recognising that this fight was entirely not about him, Aziraphale took the opportunity to slip out of the shop and didn’t return for almost two weeks, just to be safe.

* * *

“Let’s see how you like it!”

Aziraphale jumped, startled out of a gentle reverie about poached pears by the harsh and familiar voice. Bernard Black was in his shop, wild-eyed and wilder-haired.

“You’re most welcome here, Mr Black.” Aziraphale stood and offered his hand. 

Bernard ignored it and turned to one side, taking purposeful strides around the shop. He sniffed the air pointedly and paused, taking a notepad from inside his jacket.

“Unpleasant smell. Incomprehensible opening hours. Infuriating traces of an organisational system that disappear when you actually look for something.” Bernard wandered, talking aloud and scribbling in his notepad.

Aziraphale watched, mildly amused by the poor facsimile of predatory stalking that Bernard was executing. If Crowley were here to see this, he’d be howling with laughter.

“Is this- Is this a first edition Wilde?” Bernard asked, his mission derailing. He pulled the book from the shelf and opened the cover with unusual gentleness. “_ Signed? _Fell, you can’t just have this on a shelf next to-” He looked back at the empty spot, “-Enid Blyton and A.A. Milne!”

Aziraphale snatched the book out of Bernard’s hands and snapped it shut, his fingers running over the decorated cover of “The Happy Prince and other stories” in a rather protective manner.

“My good sir, if I remove the books that I do not wish to sell then this would look like a very sorry bookshop indeed.” Aziraphale sniffed, no longer enjoying the game.

“Bookshop in name only, then, is it?” Bernard had his back to Aziraphale, inspecting the rest of the assortment. 

There was an unasked question under his words, hinting at something untoward and not-to-be-spoken-of. Aziraphale bristled at the implication of an accusation.

“Absolutely not! This is an upstanding establishment!” [19]

Bernard turned then and held his hands up in what could almost be mistaken for an apology.

“No offence meant.”

Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his waistcoat and settled himself.

“None taken.”

The bell over the door rang out; Aziraphale saw the pavlovian tension in Bernard’s shoulders at the sound and smiled inwardly. Truly, they were kindred spirits.

“Bernard! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Manny rushed up to the pair, his hair and beard inexplicably tied up in pink gingham bows. “Fran climbed on top of a bookcase and says she’s never coming down. I think she’s been drinking Life Cry again.”

“How did she even get that? It’s been out of production for years.” [20] Bernard headed towards the door with his assistant, leaving Aziraphale with more questions than answers. “Uh, see you later, Fell.” Bernard called behind him.

Manny waved as he left.

* * *

"Wait, what _ on earth _are you drinking?" Aziraphale had become distracted by a terrible sight during an otherwise valuable lecture on the benefits of allowing urban legends regarding the shop to propagate amongst potential customers.

Bernard's eyes tried their best to focus on the label of the bottle he was holding. "A light, fruity red, apparently. With hints of wood, but that might just be the cork."

"But, that's awful!"

"See now that's just rude." Said Bernard, cradling the bottle protectively to his chest as if it was his firstborn he was trying to shield from Aziraphale. "I don't come into your bookshop being rude to your wine."

"That's because my wine is _ excellent _ ." He hissed [21]. "You might be cornering the market on bad customer service, but I dare say it would be hard to find a better-stocked bookshop wine cellar than mine anywhere in London!"

"Awwyeah, prove it!"

Aziraphale considered this situation. This was merely a contrary human, one he had no business with save a book he needed to purchase, and certainly not an entity he had to prove anything to. The reasonable thing would be conceding. Being the bigger man-shaped entity.

Aziraphale prided himself on being many things, but _ "reasonable" _ was not among them.

"All right then, I will!" He snapped and slammed the bookshop door behind himself with all due force.

Aziraphale walked the streets from Bloomsbury to Soho in record time, his heels striking the ground with such force that it was recorded as a minor seismic event. He might have lost the battle of customer service, but the war wasn’t over yet.

"Angel, why are you rummaging around in the wine closet?" Crowley raised one eyebrow, leaning against the wall in the kind of artful slouch that looked casual but really took years to perfect. "Was that mad Irish wanker mean to you again?"

"He was drinking a _ Tesco Finest _Crowley! Right in the middle of his shop where all the books could see!"

"What a travesty."

"Exactly!" Said Aziraphale, triumphantly brandishing a nice bottle of Château Margaux from 1927 [22], and not picking up on Crowley's mild amusement at all. "This will show him."

"What, are you going to beat him to death with it? Doesn't sound very angelic."

"Not at all." He replied smugly, the righteous fire of Heaven (and no small measure of spite) burning in his eyes. "I'm going to share my wine with him and then he's going to realize that he isn't the best worst bookshop owner in London!"

Crowley just looked at him for a moment, but he seemed so happy at the prospect of finally one-upping the ridiculous human that he didn't have the heart to say anything. 

"You show him, angel." He made a reasonably good show of an encouraging smile. "And if he still refuses to concede defeat after that, you let me know, yeah? I swear, I'll superglue coins to his steps so people come in and complain about them constantly, he won't have a moment’s peace."

Aziraphale's heavenly rampage paused just long enough for him to look at Crowley with gooey marshmallow eyes.

"Thank you, my dear. You really are so good to me."

"Yeah yeah, don't go around advertising it."

As an angel who's been stationed on Earth just about as long as there's been an Earth to be stationed on, Aziraphale has seen a lot of humans in the throes of what is commonly called divine revelation, the moment where a non-believer or even someone doubting their faith gets just enough of a glimpse at the all-encompassing Light of the Almighty that they realise just how much more beautiful and ineffable the world is than they could ever have expected. 

Watching Bernard Black take his first drink of Château Margaux is a remarkably similar experience.

“This is better than sex.” Bernard said after savouring a modest sip. His expression turned suspicious. “This isn’t some horrible joke like when our friend poisoned the pope, is it?”

“I’m sorry, your friend did what?” Aziraphale froze with his glass halfway to his lips.

“Not important. They don’t make popes like they used to. This is the real deal, though, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded and made a mental note to look up any recent papicides; he paid far too little attention to the goings-on of organised religion these days. Bernard took another sip.

“Why are you sharing your expensive wine?”

“As a fellow bookseller, I couldn’t have you setting such a poor example.” Aziraphale shuddered in disgust. “Drinking a supermarket branded wine, right out where the books could see it too.”

“Just as long as, y’know, you don’t expect anything _ in return. _” The way he weighted the words made Aziraphale examine Bernard’s face all the more keenly.

“Heavens, no!” The realisation sank in a moment later. [24] “Oh no, my good chap. You aren’t really my type! And besides, I wouldn’t want to come between you and Manny.” Aziraphale beamed his most reassuring smile.

A bark of laughter from the kitchen that betrayed Manny’s eavesdropping was swiftly followed by Bernard’s own drink-loosened giggle.

“Manny’s my assistant. Does the accounts. Pours my wine. Sells a book every now and then. That’s all!”

Aziraphale shrugged as if the misunderstanding was inconsequential. He knew that they loved each other, even if it was a manic, dysfunctional kind of love that was tested left and right and usually ended with someone drunk and in tears. 

“Thought I might have been gay for a bit. But then I found out about the prohibitive levels of hygiene.” Bernard continued, unperturbed.

“And the dancing!” Manny stuck his head around the kitchen door to add to the conversation.

Starting on a pleasant little tale about his efforts to learn the gavotte (it seemed topical), Aziraphale pulled a third wineglass from the ether and poured Manny a drink. The afternoon had become decidedly more interesting and well worth the cost of a bottle of wine.

Said bottle had more sense than to run dry before the assembled trio were thoroughly sozzled. Aziraphale was enjoying himself far more than he had expected; the company of humans was so frequently disappointing to immortals, after all. There was something about the chaotic energy that plagued Bernard and Manny, the resigned fate with which they threw themselves into each improbable occurrence, that truly tickled Aziraphale. He drank in their stories as eagerly as they drank his wine.

“-an’ so I marched in, din I Manny, I marched in and found the sick bastard aboudda shave, _ shave _ , all this glorious mane righ’ off ‘im. Well, I wasn’ gon stan’ fer it.” Bernard shrugged as if the rest of the story was obvious, his hand still waving vaguely towards Manny’s hair, which was indeed quite glorious. [25]

It was the longest he had seen the pair go without bickering, Manny hadn’t even threatened to quit since Aziraphale had arrived back with his peace offering. He was even starting to regret bringing the inferior vintage when an obnoxious noise interrupted their conversation.

A mixture of buzzing, droning, and shrill tones erupted from Bernard’s disaster of a desk.

“Oh, good Lord. What is that?” Aziraphale clapped his hands over his ears and winced.

Manny pulled open a drawer and the noise got louder. He reached in and it stopped abruptly.

“Bernard, you promised you’d stop.” Manny picked up the mobile phone and waved it accusingly at Bernard. “The policeman nearly arrested you last time!”

“S’not my fault! Rules are rules an’ I’m jus’ th’one enforcin’ em.” Bernard looked sheepish despite his defence. 

“You also write the rules. If that’s what we’re gonna call it.”

The chalkboard on the wall with ‘Rules’ written on it currently sported a lewd suggestion about the appropriate place to store vape pens. There was no mention of mobile phones.  [26]

“Ghastly things, those.” Aziraphale gave a theatrical shudder. “I should ban them from my shop too, but then Crowley would never come round.”

Bernard flailed, trying to express his excitement with all the coordination of a concussed octopus. He punched the air in Aziraphale’s general direction.

“You geddit! Yes!” He slurred. “Horrid things, I just confics- consifc- consfer- take ‘em away.”

“The policeman was very clear that it’s considered stealing, Bernard.” 

“Only when they forget to get them back.” Bernard seemed unbothered by his criminal activity.

Aziraphale was delighted.

“What do you think of customers who bring food into the shop?” His tone was conspiratorial.

Bernard gasped so theatrically that he nearly threw himself off his chair.

“Heathens!” He hissed, ignoring the dirty plates and takeaway boxes littering his desk. “Gettin’ jammy hands all over th’books.”

A slice of toast, slathered with jam and missing one single bite fell from the ceiling. It landed, jam side down, with a wet splat on the open pages of the Le Guin that Bernard had been reading.

A beat of stunned silence passed between them, broken eventually by Aziraphale’s delighted laughter. The three shared the sort of fit of giggles that can only be sparked by the mutual understanding of how ridiculous they each are. As easily as that, the rivalry was replaced with something much more fulfilling.

* * *

Crowley slithered in through a rather convenient rabbit-sized hole in some corner of _ Black’s Books _and was greeted with the oddest feeling of Almost Home. Felt a lot like entering Aziraphale’s bookshop but less homey, a bit more rough around the edges and, ugh, sticky. Which he was _ never _ going to mention to Aziraphale after the latest strop. It was rather hard to tiptoe around a sticky spot when you were a large snake (even if he deliberately forced himself into a much smaller skin, which felt a lot like putting on a shoe 3 sizes too small) but Crowley managed to make it work, somehow.

Everything was a dull yellow in here, presumably, which made it easier to see considering his colour-blindness to yellow, so only the greens and the blues stood out against the grey like well-placed beacons. What colour did Aziraphale say the book was? Red, right? Brown-red? Taupe? Oh well, he’d just look around for a bit and see if he could find the blessed Wicked Bible for the daft angel and be on with it. Hopefully, once Aziraphale had the book then he’d move on and Crowley would never have to simmer in petty jealousy at the awed look on _his_ Angel’s face. 

He’d slithered here from Eden, more or less, for his Angel and he wasn’t about to back out now, not even for a couch that eats people (he wasn’t worried about that, he wasn’t! Even if he’d just learned about mimics when some kid talked his ear off about the land of D&D in the bookshop the other day when Aziraphale was trying to shoo off the mother, though what that had to do with die he was still confused about), and certainly not for a sticky spot! At that righteou- wickedly angry thought Crowley thumped his tail on the floor and promptly became stuck on it. 

While he was a snake, and a large one at that, he had quite a bit of muscle and bodily control, he needed it in order to locomote. That being said, never in his life had anything been so difficult to get out of, not even the bloody tar pits that had trapped mammoths! He squirmed and writhed with increasingly frenetic movements until one of his coils struck the leg of a nearby table. He froze, knowing he’d made too much noise. He waited for the telltale noise of people moving about upstairs, the precursor to being discovered. No such sound came and he relaxed a little. Perhaps his human form would more luck in getting unstuck, Crowley reasoned and prepared to transform. It was to be in vain. Whatever it was that he had gotten himself stuck to had such a strong grip that he couldn’t change shape. 

* * *

“Manny! Why is there a snake in my shop, Manny? Are you trying to make friends again? You know no one will ever love you.” 

Crowley awoke with a start, confused and disoriented. He was on a floor that he didn’t recognise, surrounded by scents that felt just the wrong side of familiar, and he was being prodded with the business end of a broom. 

“A snake? But I’m scared of snakes!” A second voice squeaked. Crowley decided that this was probably Manny.

“I always knew you were weak.” 

That would be Black, then. Crowley coiled around to face him, adopting a strike pose - well. He tried - and thrashing as much of his tail as was moveable. 

“Oh God it’s huge! Is it poisonous? Make it go away.” At least one of the humans was afraid of him, Crowley thought, trying to ignore the broom still waving near his face. 

“How the hell should I know, I’m not Saint Patrick. It looks stuck to that spot on the floor.” 

Memories of the last time that Crowley had irritated an Irishman were suddenly all too vivid. That curse had _ stung _ and he still couldn’t go back to Ireland. His skin crawled when he as much walked past a shamrock! 

“I’m going to call pest control.” Manny was fretting in a fashion that had echoes of Aziraphale all through it, right down to the worrying hands wringing around each other. 

“What, Manny, do you think snakes just grow on trees? [27] It’s not hurting anyone, and maybe it can scare away some customers.” 

Crowley scoffed. If he’d refused to do that for Aziraphale, there would be no way he’d do it for some alcoholic bastard and his beard with an idiot attached. 

“It’s not a shop cat, Bernard, it’s a great bloody snake!” Anyone would preen at a compliment like that, Crowley was a pretty great snake. "You're just trying to replace Binky, aren't you?" [28]

“Ha!" Bernard exclaimed, ignoring Manny only a hint more pointedly than usual. "You know who needs to know about my new shop snake? Fell. I’m gonna call him.” 

No! Oh, that was the last thing that Crowley needed. He could already picture Aziraphale’s dopey face when he realised exactly why this particular snake had ended up stuck to the floor of Black Books. Crowley struggled against the blasted sticky spot more frantically. 

“Why are you calling Mr Fell?” Manny got a subtle demonic blessing for asking such an important question. [29]

There was no need to bring Aziraphale into this. This was so far from the usual human reaction to finding a giant, unidentifiable snake in their place of business. Crowley was starting to wonder if there was some kind of hallucinogen in the mysterious sticky spot. 

“So he can come see how nice and scary my new shop snake is, he’ll be so jealous.” Bernard spoke as if such an explanation should have been unnecessary. 

“Why would I be jealous?” 

If it were possible for a snake’s stomach to sink, Crowley’s would have dropped down to the cellar. Aziraphale was here, at the shop, mere feet away from where Crowley was stuck to the floor. 

“Ah ha, Fell! Just the man I wanted to see!” Bernard welcomed Aziraphale into the shop. 

“I didn’t bring you any wine today if that’s what you were hoping for.” Aziraphale’s tone was playful rather than affronted; Crowley was confused. 

“Hello Mr. Fell!” 

“Hello Manny, how’s Bernard treating you?” 

The longer these niceties continued, the more time Crowley had to try and escape his pending embarrassment. He strained and rocked furiously, thrashing his serpentine body against the nearby table. 

“Like a-” 

“Like a precious, balding flower with halitosis, yes, yes, yes. But look at my new shop snake!” Bernard brought them back on track. 

“Your _ what?” _ He said in disbelief, looking over in the direction Bernard had pointed. _ “Crowley?” _

It was official, they would live until the end of time and he was still never going to live this down. Crowley curled up on himself as if he could shrink down into nothingness and avoid Aziraphale’s questioning gaze. 

“Why do you know my new shop snake?” Bernard asked. “And why does he have the same name as your friend?” 

“He’s not _ your _ shop snake, he’s _ mine!” _ [30]

“You can’t have him, I saw him first.” 

“Oh, I _ very _ much doubt that.” Aziraphale’s tone almost dared Bernard to question him. 

“I think he’s stuck, Mr Fell.” Manny piped up, leaning over the sticky patch at a careful distance. 

“Oh dear. Is this where you got off to? I suppose I can forgive you for missing our lunch date today, then.” Aziraphale spoke gently with only the slightest hint of the mockery that Crowley knew would fill the rest of his unnatural life. 

Crowley refused to look at Aziraphale as he gingerly prised Crowley’s coils up from the floor. The tingle of angelic power told Crowley exactly how stuck he had been, although it did nothing to dampen his bone-deep shame at being caught. As soon as he was free, Crowley slithered up Aziraphale’s arm and draped himself across the only shoulders strong enough to support his whole body, all whilst deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone in the shop. Even the books, which were quite clearly laughing at him. 

“There we go, dear.” Aziraphale ran a soothing hand over Crowley’s scales before addressing Bernard again. “He’s named after my husband, it’s a bit of a joke we have. I have no idea how he got himself here, though. He’s lucky I was in the area.” 

Crowley made a noise that was somewhat like a groan, but only if one was familiar with the range of noises this particular snake was known to make. Aziraphale petted his head and removed the sting from his jibe. 

“Don’t suppose you’d loan him out sometimes?” Bernard asked, hopefully, ignoring Manny’s stammering protests. 

“Oh, I simply couldn’t. Sorry, dear boy, he’s far too precious to me.” Crowley did his best to bury his head in Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

“Could you, uh, take him away then?” Manny squeaked from behind Bernard, noticeably more nervous now that Crowley was free. 

“Of course. I should get him home. Thank you for keeping him safe!” Aziraphale left Black Books with Crowley draped across his shoulders and Bernard staring after him, dumbfounded. 

About halfway back to the bookshop, Aziraphale shifted Crowley’s weight and brought his snake-eyes level with his own face. 

“I assume you’re going to explain what all of this was in aid of?” Aziraphale’s tone made it clear that this wasn’t an explanation that Crowley was going to get out of. 

Crowley bared his fangs to show his reluctance but nodded anyway.

“We might need to reconsider your role around the bookshop, dearest. If you’re going to freelance at my competitors, the least you could do is pull your weight for me.” Aziraphale pouted. “You wouldn’t want me to feel ignored, would you?” 

At that, Crowley softened. He could take the teasing that was sure to follow but letting his angel think he’d rather be in another bookshop was out of the question. He appreciated the way that Aziraphale carried him, he was grateful for the rescue, and he did love the daft old sod; Crowley nuzzled Aziraphale’s jaw with his snout for the rest of the walk home.

* * *

Despite having been press-ganged into service as a resident snake in Aziraphale’s bookshop, to scare away customers and occasionally pretend to hunt down a small child and otherwise lay in the window in the sun, Aziraphale wasn’t often at the bookshop these days. And despite the fact that Crowley was generally fine with that, _ he _ wasn’t out there with Aziraphale too and there was the rub. Crowley was absolutely starting to feel neglected. 

At first he scoffed to himself, a snakey sort of sound, and coiled himself up on Aziraphale’s desk to nap, sure he’d be woken rudely and tutted at by his stuffy angel for messing up his tax papers or something equally minorly irritating. But that never happened. Crowley woke 2 days later, covered in a very light layer of dust motes, the sign on the shop still reading _ Open _ and no Aziraphale in sight. [31]

Rather quickly his ire grew into something sharp and knotted in his chest, so much so that he couldn’t contain that sort of emotion in the thimble reptiles had available for the storage of such things. Generally, Crowley very much enjoyed being a serpent, so much so that he often worried about not being able to remember how to change back into a human-shaped creature (and therefore refrained from becoming a snake on most occasions), but this part was certainly a downside. The moment he changed from reptile-shaped to mammal-shaped, he was hit with a flood of emotions that had been held back by that thimble.

The least of which was vexation, most of which was outright jealousy. Just what did that bloody _ Black _ have that he didn’t? Black was grumpy, rude, wore black, and likes books, so what! Crowley did too! Well, he liked _ some _ books, and mostly only if they were read aloud by Aziraphale, but still! That shouldn’t be the be all end all! Why, they were practically the same-

Crowley stopped mid-pace, unsure when he’d started that up at all in the first place, and stared unseeing through dark glasses for a thousand yards, through books and shelves and walls. He stood like that until something itchy crawled down his face and he growled, nearly slapping himself in his irritation-induced clumsiness. His hand came back wet and coated in a thin sheen of something shiny and translucent and, after a brief, confused moment, it was clear that he was crying. 

Oh. How very disappointing. He sighed heavily, suddenly weary to his bones, and walked over to the door to switch the sign to closed and pulled himself up the steps via the railway and flopped into Aziraphale’s bed. It didn’t much smell like him, smelled more like Crowley since Aziraphale rarely used it, but with enough pillows conjured with a snap and a heavy blanket filled with thousands of miniature glass beads it almost felt like being held. [32]

He didn’t go to sleep though, instead, his mind wandered well into difficult terrain, circling around the idea he might have been replaced, with a _ human _ . A bad-tempered, mean, rude, grumpy, terrible _ human _ . [33] Who probably, in all honesty, might have made a better rank-and-file demon than Crowley had… 

Crowley sighed to himself softly, at least once an hour despite not having to breathe, and waited unmoving until the sun set on the second day and came up on the third, feeling entirely like he was made of droopy, green sludge. Toxic and petty and ready to wait here until Aziraphale remembered him once the human finally pickled himself and died.

* * *

It was early evening, the wine was a delicious Egon Muller Scharzhofberger Riesling Beerenauslese from 1986, the company was pleasant, the customers were absent. All in all, Aziraphale was feeling the kind of peaceful contentment that he usually only associated with the combination of fine dining and Crowley for conversation. Bernard and Manny were playfully fighting over who was going to eat the last biscuit, or, at least, Aziraphale _ thought _ it was playful. [34]

Outside, it was getting dark; Crowley would be along to pick him up for their dinner reservations before too long. [35] It seemed like the right time to bring up an old topic. 

Now or never. Aziraphale took a deep breath. 

“Bernard... as one reluctant bookseller to another, you never did tell me if you had any information about that misprinted bible.” 

Bernard paused, packing tape in hand. Something dark clouded his face. 

“Glrk!” Said Manny, and glanced around for cover. 

“You! You come into my shop? You drink my wine? You befriend my Manny? And after all that, you turn out to be just a-” Bernard struggled with the next word, as if saying it physically wounded him, “customer!” 

Aziraphale was offended. He was a book dealer, not a common customer! This was a transaction between equals, there was a… a distinction, for Heaven's Sake! 

“Now, I hardly think that’s called for.” He sniffed. [36]

“Mmphlk!” Said Manny, diving behind a stack of book. 

“I think you should leave. I have a lot of drinking to do to get over this betrayal.” Bernard looked away dramatically, blinking away imaginary tears. [37]

“Come now, there’s no need for this animosity-” Aziraphale was cut off by Bernard standing and looming over him, forcing him to stand.

Aziraphale found himself being bodily forced towards the door in the same way he had seen so many of Bernard’s customers escorted from the shop. He did not care for this treatment at all. He'd rather thought they were beyond that!

“At least let me-” Aziraphale went to dodge around Bernard to reclaim his half-full bottle of riesling only to be confronted with Manny’s taped-up face screwed up in an apologetic-but-still-stern grimace. “Oh, fine.”

Aziraphale huffed and turned on his heel, stomping out of the shop. Conveniently, Crowley chose this moment to pull up in the Bentley, which rather assisted in Aziraphale’s dramatic exit.

“What’s the matter, angel?” Crowley asked as he sped them towards dinner.

“Let’s never speak of Bernard Black and his confounded bookshop again.” Aziraphale crossed his arms and scowled.

“It’s about time.” Crowley said to himself, a little too smugly.

* * *

Aziraphale sighed happily at their table at the Portland taking the first bite of fallow deer with jerusalem artichoke paired quite well with the fortified 2011 Château Laville Sauternes AOC, Crowley looking on as always, eyes hidden behind dark lenses greedily drinking in the sight and occasionally sipping at a glass of that same bottle of wine. 

“Marvellous, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured happily, eyes closed as he pat his lips with the linen napkin and wiggled a little in his enjoyment, “Simply scrummy. You always know how to lift my spirits!” He tipped his wineglass towards the demon, smiling at his own joke.

“Oh? Glad you’re happy, Angel.” Crowley said, voice low and slow. Something was off about it though, and Aziraphale couldn’t quite put his finger on what it had been bothering him. Crowley wasn’t as… relaxed as usual, he supposed. He was used to his Crowley being looser limbed and sprawled out on whatever chair he happened to sit in, freer with his words and wordless affections ever since the world hadn’t ended. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale put down his knife and fork, turning to place a gentle hand lightly over the demon’s, which had clenched into a fist on the table, “Crowley, is there something the matter?”

The demon didn’t answer at first, his jaw grit tightly and he shook his head. “No, Angel, ‘f course not.”Aziraphale frowned.

“Crowley, don’t lie to me.” He only just bit back a _ it’s rude _ when he saw Crowley’s eyes flash snakey behind his glasses.

“Don’t lie to you?” He hissed in a whisper, leaning in so their spat wouldn’t be overheard, “Don’t lie to you! Aziraphale,” Oh he was properly incensed now wasn’t he? Using Aziraphale’s name like that, “_ You _ lied to me. You said _ ‘off you pop, be back tonight’ _ and you left.”

Oh. Right, he did say that, wasn’t that earlier today? Hard to remember with all that drinking, and oh the whole _ ordeal _ of being thrown out like that!

“Aziraphale, you were gone for 3 days.”

Oh. _ Fuck _.

“C-Crowley, my dear, I am so sorry!” Aziraphale’s face fell and he carefully pulled Crowley’s fist open, gently so the demon could resist it if he liked, but after some patience was allowed to open it like a blooming flower and tangle his fingers with Crowley’s. He turned so that their knees touched and leaned forward to place a kiss on the back of Crowley’s knuckles, just above them. They had both enjoyed the whole courtly love back in the day, and Aziraphale was particularly good at it. [38]

“I didn’t mean to brush you off like that, I- I’m sorry, Crowley.” He turned their hands over and placed a gentle kiss on the thin skin of Crowley’s wrist and lay his free hand over it, as if to hold his love there, to the soft underside of his demon, as if holding it there would make sure it seeped in through his pores and break into the heart of him.

“I know.” Crowley sighed again, looking away from Aziraphale for the first time that night, “I know you didn’t. But you did and it-” He still had trouble these days, verbalizing hurt, when every part of him - every part of him that had lived under Hell’s thumb for over 6,000 years and every part of him that was a wild animal in truth - felt too vulnerable admitting he was hurt. 

“It hurt.” Aziraphale wasn’t any of the others though, his angel would never take advantage of his hurt, of the things he felt, not in ways that would twist the knife instead of removing it to help him heal. 

“I… felt replaced, Angel.” [39] Aziraphale sighed silently in relief at the nickname returning and thoughtlessly pulled Crowley’s chair closer with a modicum of his god-given angelic strength, and pulled the demon closer until their foreheads rest together and his hand cradled the base of Crowley’s skull at the back of his neck.

“My dear, _ nothing _ could ever replace you. You are my dearest one, no one could ever know me so well and I wouldn’t want them to. You snuck past these walls I guarded carefully,” He chuckled at that, eyes bright blue as he reminisced, pleased at the slowly growing flush on Crowley’s cheeks and neck, “You are _ lovely _, my dear boy. You snuck past me into my heart and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We stopped the apocalypse, we averted disaster time and again. We held each other up when the worst of atrocities caused cities and civilizations to fall around our ears, my love.”

They didn’t often so blatantly admit that, loving each other, preferring to say things like ‘husband’ or ‘my dear’ or ‘angel’ and all the things that meant ‘my love’ and ‘I love you’ within the comfort of approaching that blinding devotion from a subtler angle.

“Quite truly, _ most assuredly _,” Aziraphale’s voice took on a specific sort of tone in the ethereal plane, the kind that rang with truth through all corners of the universe and resonated directly with Crowley’s soul like a cathedral bell shaking him to the very bones and he trembled at the weight of it, eyes wide and yellow all the way through through as he looked at Aziraphale over the rims of his glasses,

“_ Most assuredly I say to thee, there is nothing and no one who could replace you. _” 

Aziraphale smiled and wiped a traitorous tear from Crowley’s eye as it escaped down his cheek and he placed a soft kiss to the corner of Crowley’s lips and, without letting go of his hand, unwilling to untangle them physically, he turned away and began in on his meal again, giving Crowley the time he needed to process things. [40]

Alright. Alright then. Crowley felt the Truth settle into the core of him, connected like red twine from soul to soul between them and grounded in the firm, warm grip of hands that could otherwise rip him apart that instead were used to bolster him and build him up. Yes, alright, then. That made sense. 

And it was good.

* * *

"Smfakhfl." Said Manny.

Removed the tape, and a good chunk of his beard.

"So. Mr Fell isn't going to come back here, is he?"

"Nnnnope." Bernard sniffed at the uncorked bottle, and pulled a face. Customer or not, he _ would _ miss the good booze.

"Oh."

"No Oh." He poured himself a glass of sub-par wine. "He only wanted our books, Manny. We don't _ need _ custo- _ his sort _."

"Except when we need to earn money?"

"Don't get clever with me, sunshine!" Bernard pointed the corkscrew at Manny. "It doesn't suit you. Trust me, we're better off without him. Let's drink to that!"

He raised his glass. "Raise your glass with me, Manny."

"I don't have one, you said you're not going to share."

_ "Pretend." _

Manny hesitantly raised his empty hand in the air.

"To Fell. Good riddance!" Bernard said, and downed his glass, Manny following suit as much as he could.

And, just like that things were back to normal.

* * *

  


Footnotes

1 Bernard Black, in spite of his high opinion of himself (and low opinion of everyone else) was, sometimes, wrong.

This was one such instance.

While it was naturally rather improbable that Manny would spontaneously find herself beautiful, as well as deeply in love with Irish bookshop owners (much less THIS Irish bookshop owner, who made being in love with him quite difficult indeed), it was by no means impossible.

Aziraphale was no stranger to the many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics, and knew therefore that, somewhere out there, a reality existed in which Manuela had just brought the love of her life afternoonfast in bed, while some other Aziraphale was still frustratedly trying to reach anyone over the bookshop phone.

He briefly considered pointing this out, but then thought better of it.

Mr. Black did not strike him as the type who took being corrected very well.[return to text]

2 Crowley's occasional comments along the lines of "honestly, angel, you'll drown in books one of these days!" nonetheless ensured that the bookshop felt quite cramped at all times, torn between its owners total ignorance of spacial relations, and his companion's active imagination conjuring up various scenarios of the paperback that would break the camel's… well, you know.

It didn't know what to do with itself and space-time, was the point.[return to text]

3 And even She would have to guess Her way around the shelves further away from the door.[return to text]

4 Not that he was in any position to. The sticky patch really was quite sticky.[return to text]

5 Later that day, Manny would trip over said shoe, and Bernard would laugh, right up until the point at which he realised that Manny had been carrying an opened bottle of what passed for fine alcohol in their establishment (read: not the rubbing kind) which had now added itself and a few inches of diameter to the sticky patch instead of making its way into the Bernard, where it belonged; at which point a lot of angry shouting and blame-assigning would commence.[return to text]

6 What the Esteemed Reader might take for a cutting exercise in mocking nicknames was, in fact, merely the product of Crowley not quite listening when Aziraphale began his rant, and being rather too afraid of his Angelic Wrath to start asking now.[return to text]

7 Crowley still woke up in a cold sweat some nights, the Foolish Misstep of '97 and the ensuing drama haunting his dreams. He'd been sleeping in the dog- er, snakehouse for _ weeks _ .[return to text]

8 Any vegetable taste indicated utmost dejectedness and hopelessness, though there were, of course, different levels of severity. Thank Someone Aziraphale wasn't exuding aubergine…[return to text]

9 Only Aziraphale had the power to weaponize endearments... and he better be carrying a permit for that "dear"![return to text]

10 Only a few weeks later would see the mummified Full English crashing down on a poor woman's head, but since she'd been after Aziraphale's Wildes, that was quite alright, really.[return to text]

11 For the Esteemed Reader who does care: Byron and Keats shared the kind of warm friendship usually only found in Shakespearean revenge dramas, and one would be hard-pressed to decide which of them would be more affronted at being placed side-by-side.[return to text]

12 Simply that he did not deny the incident altogether should already say everything about his guilty conscience, but we would like to take a moment to inform the Esteemed Readers that Aziraphale looked very guilty indeed.[return to text]

13 Now, this may sound like an extraordinarily dishonest swear, seeing as Crowley, like any demon, had no mother - not anymore - and, by extension, also no grave to swear on.

However, among demons, it was so customary to lie, any honest vow would immediately be highly suspicious; so demons' swears had done away with the concept of honesty altogether, and the more outrageous the claim, the higher the respect for the individual and their vow.[return to text]

14 The performance with the dictionary, the three saucers, and the diatribe on disappointing one's creator had moved Aziraphale to tears, and, miraculously, actually out of the door with No protest.[return to text]

15 And, it was rumoured, Beryll Black; Bernard's grandmother and frankly intimidating woman, who had only not forced Bernard to improve his attitude because he'd given her the wrong address ten years ago and never looked back.[return to text]

16 Not to mention that, with previous experiences taken into account, he would never manage to carry it out the door.[return to text]

17 Aziraphale and Crowley had spent more than one idle evening discussing whether this was Hell- or Heavenwork, and had not yet reached a satisfying conclusion.[return to text]

18 Possibly because Aziraphale had indeed offered him a humbug and an invitation to his own shop. Nothing like the sulk of the quietly guilty…[return to text]

19 No matter what the tax office thought of him.[return to text]

20 Fran had, in fact, spent a significant amount of time and money on trying to recreate Life Cry in her bathtub before just buying a case of the liquidation stock online.[return to text]

21 Aziraphale never hissed (or at least did so rarely that it seemed like never to humans and sometimes to his dear snake-fellow), but when he did, he was usually incensed. The sort of incensed that came along with his taste in wine (or anything else) being questioned.

His taste was _ excellent _ thank you, he was a _ professional _ after all. (A professional what, most people couldn’t say, but a professional Something at least. If you asked Crowley he might say that Aziraphale was a professional Bastard, but with hearts in his eyes and a sparkly aura like an anime schoolgirl in love. Not that he was in love, of course).[return to text]

22 It was a £1,000 bottle that would showcase how much _ better _ Aziraphale was at this, fair and square. Well, not really fair, considering one of them could snap money and material objects into existence on a whim and the other didn’t have superiors to report to. So really, it was pretty fair after all. 1928 would've been a better vintage, but Bernard wasn't a friend, so he got 1927.  [23][return to text]

23 He’s done this before plenty of times. Like that one time to Crowley in Mesopotamia, he had some of Sidu-eras’ rather lovely beer and had gone to find Crowley, but it had taken long enough to put him in a Mood and so he drank it himself and instead conjured some of Nis-Belu’s good-but-not- _ that _ -good-considering-the-price fermented wine and continued on to find Crowley who had been running a tavern at that![return to text]

24 Oh, this was dear old Oscar putting a hand rather scandalously far up his thigh all over again![return to text]

25 Though Aziraphale would argue that some of Crowley's styles over the years had been similarly impressive, if not more so.[return to text]

26 Though it was highly implied that they ought to go the same way as the vape pens, if Bernard had anything to say about it.[return to text]

27 Crowley, for his part, had been grown at the centre of a star, with his wings distilled from plasma and eyes shining like its molten core.

But Crowley didn't remember any of that, so a tree it might as well have been.[return to text]

28 God rest the poor thing. She had always loved to play with Bernard's discarded corks, though it ought to be assumed she'd forged a truce with the bookshop rats, since they were far too big for any cat to fight.[return to text]

29 His next uncharitable thought about anyone would cause that person to develop a rather nasty cough. However, since Manny was pure to the very depths of his soul, and still had residue from the Little Book of Calm floating about his veins, this never came to pass.[return to text]

(Though Bernard did have a bit of a sniffle for a day or two.)

30 Some little part of Crowley was deeply pleased by this statement, but it was buried by plenty of mortification.[return to text]

31 At least he hadn't adopted a double-closed sign like the one at Black's Books yet. Small mercies.[return to text]

32 Crowley had discovered this effect in the early 19th century, and found it so comforting that he promptly slept through most of the rest of it.[return to text]

33 Nothing against humans. Spiffing little critters, humans. Great music, good food. But still. _ Humans.[return to text]  
_

34 Bernard was wrapping Manny’s head in packing tape to stop him from being able to get the biscuit into his mouth, which did seem a bit extreme; however, given the breathing hole that Bernard had left open, Aziraphale felt sure that it was all in good fun.[return to text]

35 The dear thing had sounded ever so eager when Aziraphale had called to schedule. And a bit odd, but surely that had only been his imagination?[return to text]

36 In Aziraphale-speak, this meant "what disgraceful conduct! Eternal dishonour upon you, dishonour upon your bookshop, and dishonour upon your Manny!"[return to text]

37 And a few real ones. He had been vigorously smoking for the last few hours, and that was starting to get into his eyes.[return to text]

38 The number of young maidens deathly jealous of Lady Ashtoreth and her courteous knight counted in the hundreds. At least.[return to text]

39 He knew he was, in some aspects, irreplaceable to Aziraphale; fellow celestial, husband, all those were things Bernard Black NEVER would've been to his angel.

But, being replaced as Best Friend™ was a bigger deal than it sounded like, in Crowley's opinion.[return to text]

40 And himself the pleasure of being able to treat himself to some more of this frankly astonishingly good meal.[return to text]


End file.
